A Single Note-by Rumi

With a single note the nightingale
makes me notice the rose,
falling into that place
where everything is music.

*swoon*

This Being Human, by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house empty
of its furniture, still,
treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing  you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

I love it.

Time does not heal all wounds. It covers them up with scabs and scars but they still hurt all the time.

All I have left of you is a fucking photograph, a picture I printed out at work when I should've been doing
work
And it's faded and the resolution is shit and I can see the pixels in your face, blur
and your eyes have light but it's gray
because the ink was running low that day
and your hair is smudges
and a little bit of glow
from the lamp that's just outside of the picture, but I know it's there, and I know you because
I still have the clump of your hair that I cut off
at your funeral,
I was the last to leave,
the last to ever see your body.

Ryan and I
stood and cried after everyone else had to leave,
I touched your wax hands and kissed your head
and wished I could rub the blush on your cheeks
in just a little, blend it just a little, just the way you would've liked
but you can't blend
what is already dead,
So I fixed your hair, after I cut it
so the mortician wouldn't see you
at anything less than your best
before he turned you to ash.

I put your hair in a plastic sock that used to hold my
mom's cigarettes
and I left.

And now when I tell people about my grandma,
ooh my grandma she was like my mom,
my best friend,
the bookends
that held my life
in place
I know that all you'll ever
be to them is
ashes
and this clump of hair
and this blur
of ink
on a page
and this poem.

But to me
you're incomplete
a constant breeze blowing through the leaves of my autumn
a swell in my heart when I look in the mirror and see
your face
and a warm touch on my cheek
when I'm asleep
and you're not watching over me,
you are me, now, because
I am what is left of you
and I guess that has to do
for now.

But it still makes me smile to look at this fucking picture
this tiny little square
not nearly big enough to hold all the memories-
painting your nails, going to the library on rainy days
you making me mac and cheese, my favorite,
and your coffee breath that I used to hate
but now I have it
every day
at work and while I do my
work I look at your picture, I'm hugging you in that
picture, and I
can really feel your tiny little frame, your shoulders pressed against mine and
your hair against my face, the place
that I still put it
every time
I cry.

A love poem...for my phone

I don't want to check you, again
there's just nothing
very poetic
about
that.

What I want is
to feel the warmth of coffee melting
down the back of
my throat, oh

I don't know.
But I'll take the pain the
bittersweet
and the burn
of the very
first
sip on the tip
of my
tongue.

I want to
watch
fall colors, mingling, millions
in the leaves and
flitting on the breeze,
and not feel lost behind a smudged-up screen, I'm sick
of feeling controlled

by plastic, and battery acid is stinging my
mind
is not mine; my
mind
is not
mine.

It belongs to Apple and Radio Shack and I
can't steal it back
no matter how much I
try,

and I
don't want to have to search
for a synonym
for cold--
I want it to come from within,
but not the cold
the sin.

But then I'll touch you again
and shudder
and you'll melt beneath my hands like
butter
and I'll tell you what to do, yet

I'm only kidding myself,
'cause I don't own you.

But I'll toy with your buttons 'cause
I know how much I love to
turn
you
on...

And my status
is this:  I am losing
my grip.
But even still,
I'll never let you go...you know I couldn't
even if
I
could.

Stop bloggin' maaane, try and make some moneyyy

Below you will find reason number 4,087 why I think that I probably have ADHD.  Oh, look, a butterfly...